


red yarn

by honey_wheeler



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then he’s back and declaring that it’s time for Yankee Swap and she knows it’s because of her gift. Each time someone has to choose he mentions it, wiggles it enticingly, only for someone to take the iPod instead. He talks about the craftsmanship (which she knows in her heart he hasn’t noticed) and she wants to hit him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red yarn

It takes her almost an hour to choose the yarn. She wants something soft, something that feels like kittens. The young woman at the store asks her if she needs help three times; she probably doesn’t like Phyllis fondling the merchandise so much. She knows it’s just an oven mitt but she wants Michael to have something soft.

She lingers in the warm colors for a while before finally choosing two shades of red. Michael likes to wear red socks with his dark suits. Toby says it makes him look like an extra in West Side Story, but she thinks it’s cute. Maybe she can make herself a scarf out of the leftover. Her poor heater has seen too many winters to make much of a dent in this one. And if she wears it to work Michael might recognize the yarn and then it’d be almost like they shared something between them.

She works on it at night while she watches TV, her standard knitting procedure. Her best work is done during _Grey’s Anatomy_ , but _House_ is productive too. She likes to think House has a black sheep brother a lot like Michael whom he refuses to talk about. 

When she’s done, she wraps it in white paper with holly sprigs. It’s a new roll, still in its plastic wrap. Her usual policy is to use up the old roll before starting on a new one, but she really likes this paper and it almost matches the vest she plans to wear for the party. Bob comments on how bright and strong she seems, as she twists both ends with a flourish. She smiles. She loves Christmas.

All day she is jangly and impatient. Luckily she has plenty of reasons to walk by the tree, to nudge the gift gently with her foot in order to tuck it more securely under the branches. It _is_ nice paper, she thinks as she admires it. Even if the lights on the tree are sort of pitiful.

When Dwight presents the gift to Michael during the party she sits forward in her seat, her lungs tight in her chest. She wants to rip the paper off herself, to tell him what it is before he can even get the wrapping off. But then he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even look at the pattern or stroke the soft yarn with his fingertips. Her stomach feels like she swallowed a brick.

“I knitted it for you.” It’s more of a defense than an explanation.

“An oven mitt?” The disgust in his voice is unmistakable. When he storms out she doesn’t look up. She doesn’t want to see the pity in everyone’s eyes.

Then he’s back and declaring that it’s time for Yankee Swap and she knows it’s because of her gift. Each time someone has to choose he mentions it, wiggles it enticingly, only for someone to take the iPod instead. He talks about the craftsmanship (which she knows in her heart he hasn’t noticed) and she wants to hit him. He calls Meredith a sucker for choosing it, and she almost _does_ hit him.

She retreats to the bathroom to sniffle and dab at her eyes with a rough paper towel, her glasses pushed up uncomfortably against her forehead. She hates crying. The tears slide along the frames of her glasses and bead up on the lenses, and she spends as much time cleaning them as she does crying.

Finally, hesitantly, she leaves the cover of the bathroom. Michael’s there with liquor now, enough vodka to incapacitate a small Russian village. _He won’t ruin my night,_ she thinks, and takes a swig of punch. Bob arrives and she introduces him to everyone, the oven mitt forgotten for the moment. He smiles, places his hand on her shoulder, and some of her pride returns; she can do some things right. She even does a shot with Michael, the alcohol making the edges of her mind soft and muzzy, just like the yarn. The soft, red yarn she spent an hour picking out that cost twice as much as her regular yarn.

Everyone makes plans to meet at Poor Richard’s and they crowd into the elevator in groups. She and Bob are the last down. As they walk through the lobby he asks if Michael liked his gift. The vodka has worn off now. Now her head feels empty, and her heart feels full and heavy, and she finds she can’t say that he didn’t. Can’t say that he downright hated it. So she just shrugs. Says that she’s hungry, and can’t they go get dinner instead?

He opens the door and gestures for her to precede him. The cold air is sharp; it makes her lungs burn. His car is dusted with snow, which makes it look like it’s been sprinkled with powdered sugar. “You don’t want to go to the bar first?” He opens the car door for her. He always has, but tonight it makes her want to cry.

“Oh no.” Her voice doesn’t quiver. That, at least, is something. “No, dinner is enough. Dinner will be just fine.”


End file.
